Tokens and Taboos
by Patent Pen
Summary: Takes place just after Sansa and Jon meet again at Castle Black, in s6 e4, and will continue on until after the war. It's what I imagine to be happening in between the scenes in the show, with a lot of creative freedom on my part. It starts out quite angsty, but I promise there will (at least) be fluff further on... And who doesn't love a brooding Jon Snow who knows nothing? ;)


Jon

Castle Black

Jon lay awake in his narrow bed, staring at the raw wooden ceiling, thinking about forbidden things. It was only when he was alone like this that he'd allow himself to dream a little and dive into his mind without having to answer to anyone. Nobody else would ever know, judge, or ask him uncomfortable questions. In the beginning of his time at Castle Black, it had often been his favourite part of the day.

Tonight, he imagined a different world where he was a free man who wasn't trying to scrape an army together, where the winter was milder and he wasn't stuck in this bloody castle. Where Sansa was happier, and he got to share that happiness with her and everyone else that he cared about. Right now, she was the foremost person in his mind though, probably because of the close proximity and her recent entry into his life. It felt strange that she'd been the first of the family that he'd reunited with, at least considering their history, or rather, lack thereof.

Now, he wanted to share so many things with Sansa. Maybe too many. Maybe it was because she was the closest thing to a family that he had right now, or perhaps because she was one of the last connections to a past he desperately missed. People they had both loved and who lived side by side in their combined memories, and he wanted to remember them with someone, truly, and not just speak about them as he did with Sam. Not that he didn't like Sam, but it was for obvious reasons very different with Sansa.

Memories from a childhood long gone started to creep into his mind, but he didn't want to linger on that right now though and pushed it to the back of his mind.

In any case, when the war was over they'd finally have time to tell their stories, time to get to really know each other again. After all this time it would be ridiculous to pretend that they were still the same people.

And if they were really lucky, and somehow survived all the obstacles that lay ahead, there would be time to get closer than they'd ever been before, if she wanted to. He knew that he did. They'd never been close before, but once again, war tended to change things. All the other circumstances weren't exactly what you could call "normal" either. And when things weren't normal, you started to have abnormal thoughts. Thoughts that would never have cross your mind otherwise, at least so he told himself.

Thoughts that shouldn't ever have entered his mind in the first place.

During times like these, different things started to matter. So much was overthrown and things that had once seemed important faded into the background, and didn't return until the calm settled again. When your mind cleared after the storm raging around you had ceased. What was murder in times of peace was an obvious necessity on the battlefield. Theft and vandalisation were tools for survival. There was no honour in it, even if they would convince themselves that they were doing it for a greater good to be able to live with themselves.

Many went crazy and suicide was rampant after battles, but it was rarely talked about. Maybe part of being a knighted hero was the ability to be able to live with yourself after everything was done and over with, and still be a useful resource to society. Maybe setting taxes and checking grain storages was a kind of therapy for the mind, forcing it to not remember all the blood it had seen. But he had heard the echoes in the castle as the great fighters relived the horrors in their dreams. Once more, it was very seldom mentioned. Everybody knew, but tearing up old wounds by talking about it often did more harm than good. That way spiraled into a depth of darkness faced by few. Milk of the poppy became a necessity to lead an ordinary life, or as close to it as was possible.

And in the midst of his regular pondering, he couldn't seem to shake the picture of Sansa from his mind. Her pale skin, blue eyes, the way her dress wrapped around her body... the long braided hair. It wasn't right, but alone in the darkness, he didn't care.

He hadn't seen a woman like her, well, ever.

There was the safety and comfort of having shared a past together, long gone now, but still very much a part of them. Something to long for, to strive for. Something to remind them that the world could be different from the current messy state that it was in. And she had eyes that appeared to be able to see right through him. They found the agony that he so desperately tried to hide as he struggled to remain stable for the people who depended on him. It had caught him off guard, but for once he didn't mind. At the same time, the only person who would be able to see it in him must have been through hell themself, and he'd seen as she'd put on a brave face and tried not to wince as she moved. How her body tensed up and she would grip chairs until her knuckles whitened when she stood up, and his entire being ached for it.

It had been easy to turn his sadness into rage, but he kept it away from her. He doubted that what she needed was another aggressive man in her life.

That being said, she'd stood tall and proud by him and hooked her arm in his as he had showed her around the premise and introduced her to his, (technically), former brothers in arms. He'd caught himself staring at her, and Tormund had given him a look like he read his thoughts, but had said nothing. It had been like looking the truth in the face. And after that, he hadn't been able to put the thoughts of her away away. They danced around in his mind before he fell asleep, and she was the first thing he thought of in the morning. It stirred something in him that he knew didn't belong there, but he resisted putting a word to it.

If you put a name to something, anything, it made it near impossible to avoid interaction with it, and even in his most liberated state of mind, in his bed in his cell at night, he refused. It would pass when the war was over. He'd return to his senses soon enough, or so he told himself. There wasn't really any place in this world for what he felt. And still...

The constant thought of her kept pushing his boundaries little further from where they really ought to be.

What he did know was that he was neglecting his other duties, and it was starting to show. Her arm under his, she'd been wonderfully close to him and Jon never wanted to let her go. He started to take every opportunity that was given to be alone with her, and maybe he was imagining it, but he felt as though she sought him out more than she needed. But in a time when they were each others pieces of a shattered home, who knew.

It was wishful thinking, but once more, he didn't care.

She moved something in him that he thought he'd managed to shake away after all the time by the wall, as though she reconnected him with a part of his former self. He thought of old stories with heroes and princesses, of her sowing and singing and him and Robb playing with wooden swords in the yard.

Of someday wanting to tell those stories to children of his own. And of Sansa singing to them. He imagined her there, strong and soft and warm, with happier eyes and dressed in velvet and fur. It was summer, or spring, or anything but winter. She'd told him she wanted kids, and many of them. Of them looking like Robb and Bran and Arya, of how she'd let her daughters ride as much as they wanted or learn the bow or only wearing trousers if they wanted. Of filling Winterfell with light again. And of the torture of being a hostage in her own home, seeing the rooms destroyed, of an entire lifetime ripped apart. And he knew then that he would do everything, anything to get it back to her.

They grounded each other.

They fueled a fire between them that made him feel invincible. He knew he wasn't, but it didn't matter much. The same fire numbed out the world around him, and he was so sick of it. No, he didn't really want to go to battle for Winterfell. He wanted it back, of course he did, but he was tired to his core of fighting that he'd almost rather throw himself off the wall. It felt empty, weary and he lacked purpose. And then Sansa had said that she'd do it without him if need be, and the light in her eyes had all but knocked the air out of him. The implications were horrid.

There was realistically only one way a young woman could get an army, and though it weighed heavy, the Stark name wasn't enough on its own, not really. Perhaps it would have been for a man, but not for her. Any clever man could marry her and take her name, and he knew that she would do anything to get her home back, not to mention taking revenge for the scars that covered her, inside and out. For that, he would never blame her. The truth was, though, that he would never be able to live with himself if he made her do it.

In short, Jon needed to fight for her, or he would never forgive himself. The sadness and rage and need for vengeance sprung from the source of love he had for her, and he had never felt its true strength until that moment. He loved her with a depth he barely dared to address, especially not to her, but he knew that she saw it, and the look that she'd given him in return frightened him half to death. The thought of it clung to his chest like a breath he couldn't let out.

He sat up in his bed, put his face in his hands and tried to will it away. It hurt. It made him want to smile and cry and burned in his throat and on his lips. He opened his eyes as though to undo her face from mind, and the light of the fire in the corner of the room burned in his pupils. There was a cup of water on the table next to his bed, and he downed it in one go, and he thought to himself that just this once he was happy that this damned castle never really got properly warm.

Then his thoughts wandered back to what she'd said about wanting children, her voice echoed in his mind. Little boys and girls with that red Tully hair, tugging at her skirts to be lifted up. Playing noisily in the yard. Hugging them goodnight. Teaching them their letters. Their children.

And waking up next to her and brushing her locks from her face.

It was wrong. He didn't care. If only for a few minutes a day, he had to be completely honest with himself or he'd go mad.

Where was he again?

As the thoughts swept over him they caused his heart to stop for a second as he took it in. He wanted it with every fiber of his being.

They must have been apart too long, or his mind would not have ventured here. And for the first time since she arrived, he allowed himself to clearly think the thoughts that he had been carrying around out loud; That from the moment they'd met, he had not thought of her as a sister.

Perhaps he never would again.

Perhaps the last of his decency had died with him and stayed in the empty darkness after he returned.

She was in the room next to his. She was here, sleeping, breathing. So close, and so very far away.

No, he did not love her like a sister. He would never have thought about Arya this way. He had scarcely thought of any woman this way.

Then there came a soft, near unnoticeable knock on his door that almost pushed his heart out of his chest. As his mind considered feigning sleep, his body moved instinctively with a life of its own. He scrambled out of bed, pulled his cloak on in a single sweep and unlocked the door. And there she was.

Why? It wasn't fair.

"I can't sleep". She answered his question before he had the time to ask it. Without uttering a single word, he took a step to the side and let her in, running his hand through his hair.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

At least not right now. The gods must be punishing him, and he vowed never to pray again.

Seemingly oblivious to his inner torment, she sat down by the fire and looked up at him, softly, inviting. He joined her, with a mind that screamed curses at him and ached in a way he wouldn't acknowledge. He'd deal with that later.

"I didn't wake you up, did I?" Her voice was almost sleepy. He shook his head and crinkled his tired eyes in a smile.

"Nah, and if you would've, it had been alright." She smiled back him.

"Okay." She held her hands out towards the fire, and he saw thin white stripes on the inch of her exposed arms. How long had Ramsey been… He couldn't think it now, he'd wait until she had gone.

They sat together in silence for a long while, his breathing starting to follow her rhythm. Her hair gleamed in the light of the fire, and he drank in the sight of her. There was no way that she didn't notice, but all of it felt so surreal and strange and giving in to the part of him that he had tried to guard so closely, he didn't care.

"Everything is so different... We're so different." Her voice was soft and distant. "And still, when I saw you, it was like no time had passed by. Like all the in-between didn't matter." He nodded, still looking at her.

"Aye." He agreed in a low voice, and that tightness in his chest grew stronger. He didn't trust his voice, and he didn't much know what to say.

Even in this light, he could have sworn that she was blushing. And then she finally turned her face towards him, with trusting eyes and a smile that melted away all the aching in him. He didn't know what she thought of him as, and in this moment it didn't matter. All he knew was the undisguised and pure love that radiated from her, and he knew that it would be imprinted in his memory forever.

"Thank you for everything." He managed a soft shrug.

"It's you, and then it's easy." She rested her warm hand on his and gave him another smile, but sweeter, grateful.

"Still. Thank you." Her eyes were so blue and the happiness painted on her face was so real that it caught him off guard. He was staring again, and she _knew._

He wanted to kiss her so badly.

He wanted to kiss every scar on her body and make her forget all of the things she'd never deserved done to her.

She wasn't supposed to be in here, not now. But she was, and he never wanted her to leave.

Then she leaned in and kissed his cheek, got up and whispered a soft "good night". And he just sat there, stunned, unfreezing only as he heard the door close behind her.

He was lost. Did she know? He rested his face in his hands and felt disgusted with himself. She had to know. He knew that everything had been written on his face since the moment she'd walked in. He might as well have handed her a list. He felt so naked and bare and yet, she'd had the grace, nay, the _kindness_ not to expose him.

The question of why she had come roared through his mind, and he slammed it down like a hammer on an anvil. He couldn't take it right now. Over and over in his mind he repeated that he needed to rest, but it did little good.

She'd just been through hell, and all he could think about was the way her scent still lingered in his chamber.

And as a dreamless sleep finally overtook him, he could almost feel her there.


End file.
